


A Different Kind of High

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael, Mahone, handcuffs, frisk...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> A lil’ fic for Foxriverinmate’s birthday. The handcuffs ~~kink~~ thing has already been done, but well... *g* Happy birthday ;)  
>  Thanks to torigates for the beta.  
> Initially written in 2008.

He lets the Border Patrol take care of Burrows. Doesn’t mind, doesn’t care. But he does grab Scofield by his collar to drag him to his feet and shove him against the car hood, hands stretched out above his head. The double click of the handcuffs reverberates in the night and shuts out everything else – the shouts, the orders, the police car sirens. Alex locks them tight enough to be vaguely painful, the metal biting into the flesh, and kicks Scofield’s feet apart. He searches him from ankles to shoulders, back and then front. He’s quick, efficient and professional but nonetheless allows himself to enjoy the carefully neutral expression of his captive when his hands grip a bit harshly or reach for intimate spots. He deserves it, deserves the small pleasure of watching Scofield look at him with a barely disguised hate and fighting not to grit his teeth.

He grabs the chain of the handcuffs and yanks on it with a deliberate brutality. Scofield stumbles forward; they briefly crash against each other before Scofield hurriedly steps back. Alex smirks at that. It doesn’t matter, he can step back as much as he wants, he’s not going anywhere. Adrenaline pumps into his veins, his heart beats just a tad too fast, sweat gathers between his shoulder blades. It’s a different kind of high, one he’s been missing for a while. It’s better than ever.

A couple of cops seize Scofield by his arms and shove him in the van. Alex stands in the middle of the road, almost missing the contact of straining muscles, sweaty skin and warmed metal. He’s dizzy with victory but wary about what’s coming next. He’s never been the kind of guy to count his chickens before they were hatched, now less than ever.

* *


End file.
